


Lonely Roads

by BurntWhisky1



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Loneliness, M/M, Starvation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26734285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurntWhisky1/pseuds/BurntWhisky1
Summary: Geralt - just trying to get back to Kaer Morhen.There comes a time when even a Witcher has pushed himself too far.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	Lonely Roads

**Author's Note:**

> Set soon after the events at Queen Calanthe's Court when Destiny grants Geralt a Child Surprise.

  
The forest was strangely silent, as though all the usual nocturnal wanderers were frozen in place, hidden in some safe refuge or poised for flight. Black tree trunks stretched up out of darker shadows, the skeletal fingers of their branches reaching towards the night sky and the silver moon that cast a pale stripe over the inky waters of the lake.

A ripple disturbed the water, shattering the moon's reflection into a thousand, bright edged wavelets. Then the surface roiled, a great disturbance in the depths rising upwards until the flailing, unnaturally shaped head and arm of a Drowned Man broke free. It twisted and thrashed, the rotting stink of the creature cloying in the cold air before it sank abruptly. Slowly the water settled again until there was no sound but for the soft splashing of ripples running aground in the reeds. Still the forest waited.

Suddenly a figure rose up out of the water at the edge of the lake. He stood there for a moment, thigh deep, water streaming from his head and shoulders and the moonlight picking out the silver in the long, wet strands of his hair and glinting off the blade of the wicked-looking sword in his hand. He brought up his other hand and dragged it down his face, the movement shaky and weary and slow, then he spat into the shallows and waded heavily ashore and up the bank, shedding sheets of water at every step.

When he reached the treeline he looked back briefly at the lake and gave a resigned sigh, as though something had disappointed him but this was not entirely unexpected. Then he turned back to the trees and crouched down beside a tidy pile of gear. He slid his sword into the waiting sheath next to its partner and slung it onto his back, gathered the remaining items and moved away, surprisingly silent and graceful for one so tall and muscular.

A horse awaited him in the shadows; the figure moved towards the sweet smell and whinny, caressing the velvet nose and letting his forehead rest momentarily against the vibrant warmth of her soft neck.

“Roach," he grunted, a wealth of exhaustion in his tone.

She huffed back gently, nudging at him with her muzzle.

"I'm sorry," he said.

No head meant no coin from the village alderman and no coin meant no trading for sweet oats for Roach or food and potion ingredients for himself. It would have to be grass and game and berries again, all of them harder to come by now autumn was wearing away towards winter.

Roach didn't seem to hold it against him and held steady as he packed his gear and climbed into the saddle. With no prospect of a stay at an inn, his next best option was to return to the rock platform where they'd spent the previous night. At least it was sheltered by a rocky overhang and he'd already blocked the worst of the wind with some fallen branches. It was almost as though he'd known he would be returning.

The Witcher rode in silence. Roach was sure-footed as she slipped through the night, her passenger alert to any danger as he steered her with tiny nudges of his knees, horse and man so used to each other that they worked effortlessly as one.

For all that, the ride back seemed to take forever and the moon was setting by the time they reached the deserted rock platform. The Witcher cast a weak Igni at a small pile of wood he'd gathered the previous day and turned his attention to his horse. It wasn't until she was groomed, comfortable and supplied with the last of the oats that he allowed himself to sit by the fire. Even then he refused to rest; there was armour to oil and weapons to clean and sharpen. He was Geralt of Rivia and even after so many years he remembered his lessons well.

When he was finally finished, he sat in his damp shirt and trousers, weary to his soul and hunger gnawing at his gut, telling himself he couldn't feel the aches that scraped at his bones or the cold shudders that wracked his frame even when he crouched over the small fire and pulled his worn cloak tight around his shoulders.

It did not occur to him that somewhere during the years since the Trials he'd forgotten one lesson, only ever inferred and never spoken, the importance of caring for himself.

...

He packed up early the next morning, in pain, unrested and hungry but considering himself fortunate to have escaped the previous night's work without serious injury. The Drowned Men had been fast, lethal and unwilling to emerge fully from the water. With no Necrophage Oil in his pack he'd had to rely on his silver sword and dagger and a risky decision to shed some of his armour weight before entering the lake. He'd been lucky to escape with only a deep scrape to his back; after a long run of unpaid kills, it wasn't as though he'd had any potions left to combat the poison of a Drowned Man.

It was now essential he found a paying contract before it was too late to make a final, belated push to winter at Kaer Morhen. In truth, the thought of the sanctuary at the Keep had been the only thing keeping him moving forwards for weeks, the prize for getting there a respite from icy roads and constant peril and a much needed breathing space away from the needs and corrosive hatred directed at him by humankind.

With this aim in mind he broke camp, the process made unusually difficult by the way the ground appeared to be pitching and rolling under his feet. As he tightened Roach's girth he wondered vaguely when he'd last slept or eaten protein other than a skinny rabbit - everyone knew a man, even a mutant, couldn't live on rabbit alone.

Once he was astride, they set out into a persistent grey drizzle that soaked them in a subtle way and acted like a muffling blanket on the noises of the forest. The lack of sound brought the bard to mind, causing a corner of the Witcher's lip to curl slightly in wry amusement; it had never been quiet when Jaskier was around.

He hadn't seen the bard for some time; they'd parted company after the night at Queen Calanthe's court when the Witcher had inadvertently lumbered himself with a Child Surprise. As far as he knew, Jaskier was still roaming the continent; occasionally Geralt heard one of his songs in a tavern, although he’d no idea of the man's current whereabouts or circumstances.

For the briefest of self-indulgent moments he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to have a travelling companion again. He shut that thought down quickly. To be a Witcher was to be alone.

...

Two days later Geralt found himself on the outskirts of the small town of Laeren. He waited a while in a stand of trees, eyeing the haphazard collection of ramshackle hovels outside the town gates and the haze of smoke rising above the chimneys of the town itself. The fact that the hovels were outside the walls suggested the settlement was prosperous and any contracts should attract decent coin. It was worth going inside even if the thought of running the gauntlet of human contempt made the slow beat of his mutated heart accelerate to an uncomfortable rhythm. It shouldn’t affect him, he reminded himself; Witchers didn’t have emotions.

He took a deep breath, the intention being to steady himself, but instead the damp air caught at his lungs and wrenched out a deep, chesty cough that made his ribs ache and his back throb. It made him wonder, not for the first time, if he'd inadvertently inhaled some lake water, although why he'd still have a cough so many days later was a mystery. His superior healing abilities seemed to be struggling, another reason to get back to the Keep as soon as possible. 

He nudged Roach into motion. The heavily reinforced wooden gates were propped open, a steady stream of what appeared to be market day traffic passing under the disinterested eye of the scrawny guard, who seemed more intent on a steaming, sweet-berry pie clutched in one grimy hand than on searching any passers-by.

Geralt dismounted and joined the throng of farm carts, heavily laden traders and pedestrians as he led Roach up to the gate, keeping his head down under his raised hood and his shoulders hunched to make himself appear less intimidating.

The sweet smell of the berry pie travelled easily on the cold air; it engulfed him as he passed, mixing with the fetid aroma of unwashed bodies, poor sanitation and the refuse pit outside the walls. It made his stomach roil with a combination of intense hunger and nausea and for a moment he feared he might vomit. He gagged, swallowed hard and clenched his fist around Roach's bridle so that the momentum of her passage pulled him through the gates.

Once inside the walls his Witcher senses reeled, overwhelmed by the onslaught of noises and smells created by the sea of humanity and their animals. Geralt cringed inwardly, feeling more vulnerable than he ever did when faced with monsters, his armour and swords no protection against humans' most effective weapon, one that had been directed at him so many times in the past and would surely be aimed at him again before he'd finished in the town.

He leaned into the reassuring heat of Roach's shoulder, dizzy enough to need her support as they made their way up the street, their pace slow and attracting the odd curse from traders racing for the best positions in the central market. He clenched his jaw; curses he expected. He was a mutant, a freak, and most humans despised him more than the monsters he hunted. On the streets of a busy town, surrounded by people, he was utterly alone. He told himself that it didn't bother him; he was a Witcher and Witchers didn't have feelings or emotions. They were meant to be alone. The strange, tight feeling along his spine, the hollow emptiness in his chest, the clench in his gut, they were just natural physical reactions to being in a perilous situation.

He pushed onwards towards the market square, the most likely place for a contract to be pinned on a notice board. Occasionally someone caught a glimpse of his eyes and a ripple of whispers and revolted looks spread around him. Their hatred bore down upon him, the weight of it making him feel sick and shaky. It crossed his mind that maybe he was less recovered than he’d hoped, that maybe if he couldn’t handle the dislike of a few people then he was unlikely to fare well in any contract. Maybe he’d have been better giving the town a wide berth and pushing on, coinless, to Kaer Morhen. Too late now, he thought, might as well see it through.

The street opened up into the Town Square. It was packed from side to side with traders’ stalls, their merrily striped awnings bright against the dark buildings, flags fluttering in the breeze. There were people everywhere, every shape and size and quality, ragged children pushing between brown-clad peasants who were shoulder to shoulder with silk-clad wealth. It was indicative of how near the town was to the edge of civilisation that the market was so popular with so many.

Geralt edged his way around the outside of the crowd until he found the town notice board. Its decorative wooden surface was festooned with notices of all kinds: lost child; piglets for sale; washing services; pawnbrokers; plough for hire. Contracts…none.

Fuck.

He read the notices again, golden eyes narrowed with desperation, reaching up to lift some of the sheets in case a contract was hidden underneath, uncaring that the wound on his back split and throbbed or that his hood had fallen so his white hair spilled across his shoulders.

Nothing.

Fuck. 

The board blurred in front of him and he staggered back a step, coming up against Roach’s neck. He felt cold, sweaty; he needed to leave, now, find something, anything, to eat. Hole up until he healed enough to travel.

Roach nudged him urgently. During his momentary inattention a small space had opened up around them and the vicious comments had started. Inexplicably a heavy feeling settled above the bridge of his nose, making his eyes sting and his throat close up. He wasn't sure what it meant and fumbled at his hood with uncooperative fingers, noticing Roach had inserted her bulk between him and the press of humanity. He grasped a stirrup and hung on as the world swayed sickeningly around him.

"...ralt? Geralt! It is you!"

Geralt raised his head, a familiar scent in his nostrils and Roach's welcoming nicker in his ears.

"I'd recognise that lovely hair anywhere, although I have to say, my dear Witcher, a little grooming wouldn't go amiss."

Geralt blinked, turning and trying to focus on bright clothes and brighter eyes. He heard a sharp intake of breath and inwardly he cringed, suspecting he had been found wanting.

An impertinent hand touched his arm, the warmth of a body entering his personal space. He had no immediate defensive urge to rip it apart, that natural reaction replaced by a feeling of resignation as the scent and the blurry image coalesced into Jaskier.

"Melitele's tits! What have you been doing to yourself? Oh, do be quiet and fuck off would you?"

This last was addressed to a portly trader whose red-faced countenance had suggested the best type of Witcher was a dead one.

Geralt swallowed around an inconvenient lump in his throat.

"Jaskier? "

"What? You've forgotten me already? That isn't very flattering you know, it's not as if..."

The bard's voice faded out, becoming reedy and far away. Geralt blinked again, slowly, and locked his knees as they threatened to give way.

"...ralt! Gods! Look at me! You're not going to...? You are. Shit."

An arm slid beneath his, propping up the side that wasn't holding onto Roach.

"...few steps...lodging...just walk Geralt, I can't carry your heavy arse, lovely though it is."

The Witcher obediently shuffled one foot in front of the other until the noise of the square was blessedly behind them and there were only the echoes of a narrow street, followed by the squeak of a gate and the deep cool of a small, cobbled courtyard surrounded by tall fences.

"You can let go of Roach now."

Jaskier's voice at his side made him startle. He flinched involuntarily and then steadied himself, fingers automatically reaching for Roach's girth.

"No, don't bother with that." There was a soft note in the bard's melodious voice. "I'll see she's comfortable as soon as we get you inside."

Geralt allowed himself to be steered through a doorway and into a small room warmed by an open fire. Jaskier helped him lower himself onto a wooden chest and propped him back against the wall, keeping hold of him by the shoulders as though he didn't trust Geralt's balance. Geralt didn't trust it either.

"Are you going to faint?"

The Witcher shook his head slightly. "I don't think...I don't know, maybe."

"Unexpectly honest."

A soft hand cupped his cheek and Jaskier sighed.

"You look like shit."

"Hmm. Yes."

Geralt tried to focus on the bard but he was a soft-edged blur against the warm colours of the firelight.

"Again, unexpectedly honest, and positively verbose, for you."

Jaskier's deft fingers dealt with the straps and buckles of the Witcher's armour, his voice prattling on as he stripped it away. 

"What am I going to find under here, hmm? Nothing too horrible I hope?"

Belatedly, Geralt caught at his wrist. There was no reason why the bard should help him. He had no coin to pay him for food, medicine or lodgings.

"Jaskier, I can't stay here."

"Why not?" The man sounded honestly puzzled.

"I can't pay."

"Oh." Jaskier's scent altered subtly, flavoured now with hurt and disappointment. "That isn't necessary, Geralt."

The bard didn't understand. Geralt shifted on the box, anxious to make himself understood. He forced the words out. 

"You shouldn't have to help me. I'm not...not worth helping."

The bard's breath caught, his voice choked.

"Yes, you big idiot, you are. Just let me look after you, alright?"

"Why, would you do that?" The Witcher's voice was a low growl of suspicion and surprise, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"You mean why would I help you, when you simply disappeared on me? Not a word? Just get up one morning and you're gone? Because...because I'm your friend, Geralt. I know you don't want that, but there it is."

A friend. His friend. A human who didn't hate him. Geralt sagged, wanting only to pass out.The heavy feeling was back on the bridge of his nose. He swallowed, hard, and shut his eyes. Next to him the bard went unusually still, the sound of his heartbeat jumping as his lute-calloused fingertip tracked something down the sharp angles of Geralt's cheekbone and jaw.

"Oh," Jaskier said quietly. "I didn't even know you could do that. You really are a mess, aren't you?"

Geralt let his head drop back against the musty wall. The air was full of the smell of woodsmoke and sorrow and salt. He kept his eyes closed and allowed himself to fade out, knowing that at last there was someone there to stop him falling. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Any comments and kudos are gratefully received ☺️  
> Disclaimer - characters belong solely to their creators. No profit intended or desired.


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